


bit part, wrong play

by notthebees



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Do you ever have a crowning moment of glory and then it turns out nobody was watching and/or cared, Gen, Huge L........unless?, Man has literally never caught a single break in his life, This was supposed to be the summer of George!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:47:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29598516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notthebees/pseuds/notthebees
Summary: The part that George himself played in the action is increasingly beginning to feel like a vivid hallucination, not least because no has said anything to him about it. Which George doesn’t mind!Hodgson's direct hit on the Tuunbaq goes largely unrecognized, lost in the mounting stack of immediate crises on board Terror. He's waited all his life for a moment like this, and tries his best not to take the snub to heart.
Relationships: George Hodgson & The Terror lieuts, George Hodgson & Thomas Hartnell
Comments: 8
Kudos: 18





	bit part, wrong play

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place between episodes 5 and 6.

It’s been two days since the incident on Terror with the creature, and George is beginning to wonder whether he simply dreamed the whole thing. Not all of it, obviously—Mr. Blanky’s absent leg is a testament to the fact that _something_ happened—but the part that George himself played in the action is increasingly beginning to feel like a vivid hallucination, not least because no has said anything to him about it. Which George doesn’t mind!

He doesn’t mind, actually, that no one has acknowledged the cannon shot, much less thanked him for probably saving the life of Mr. Blanky with his precise aim. Mr. Blanky had, admittedly, been quite badly hurt, which was—is—terrible, but Dr. MacDonald says he’s stable now (so to speak), and surely no one can deduct marks from George’s performance because of _that_. First of all, he and Hartnell and Sergeant Tozer had run the cannon in and around as quickly as anyone on either ship could have, which was no small feat. And second, no one, not even Edward, not even Captain Fitzjames, had been able to make out the creature scaling the foreyard in the blizzard—white on blinding white—so the difficulty in taking aim wasn’t George’s particular failing. What exactly Mr. Blanky had been doing on deck in the first place was a mystery to George then as now—no one tells him anything—although he concedes that, ultimately, Blanky’s presence did draw the bear’s attention away from George himself, and for that he is profoundly grateful.

So it couldn’t be on account of the casualty of Blanky’s leg, nor the deaths of Darlington and Daly, that the cannon shot has warranted no mention from anyone—but then what is it? He’s walked through the sequence of events again and again, searching for the fault, trying to spot the failing or miscalculation. He’d only had time for a single shot, which was all it had taken him, despite the wind and the white-out, and frankly, even if Blanky’s leg had been George’s fault, the sheer trickiness of the shot, to George’s thinking, ought to have tipped the scale at least slightly in his favor, which should have gotten him...something. A clap on the back, maybe, or a “That was handily done, lieutenant.” Something.

He’s doing his best not to let it drive him a bit mad.

John had relieved him shortly after MacDonald had taken Blanky’s leg off, and George had barely slept; it wasn’t the amputation that had kept him awake, though—it was the thrill of all that had come before. He can admit that, just to himself. And not just the thrill of having not been killed, but the unexpected thrill of success. And not just success, but a _great, undiminished_ success—by any reasonable accounting, that is. Great success despite confounding conditions, great success under immense pressure. George isn’t familiar with the feeling, although he is intimately familiar with trying to imagine it.

It had kept him from sleeping, this intoxicating mixture of exhilaration and relief and—rarest of all for George Hodgson, second lieutenant, second son, second choice of everyone for all time—a swell of _pride_ , and when he’d finally slept, he’d dreamt of firing a musket ball straight between the bear’s eyes, and of applause—of Edward cheering, and an impromptu chorus of For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow sweeping over him.

* * *

He’d awakened in the dark the next morning all at once, filled with a nameless anticipation, rather as one wakes on the morning the headmaster is due to present one with a prize for Latin or mathematics. Not that George would know anything about that. John would, he supposes—but then again John is so _good_ , he probably wouldn’t let the satisfaction of it carry him away. At any rate, he'd assumed it must be a similar sort of feeling, although he couldn’t quite put into words what exactly he’d hoped for. Not Edward and John _and_ Captain Crozier waiting in the officers’ mess to congratulate him, certainly. They wouldn’t do that. _Would_ they do that? Involuntarily, his hand had twitched and he’d murmured dismissively, “…Nothing…. Lucky shot….”

When he’d approached the table, Edward—breakfasting alone, and looking even more tired than usual—had hardly looked up.

“Edward!” George had greeted him loudly, just to ensure Edward knew he was there. “Goodness, you look as though you’ve hardly slept! What a night, eh?”

Edward _hmmm_ -ed blearily, and George suddenly had experienced a jolt of horror: “Is Mr. Blanky…?”

“Alive,” said Edward. “Dr. MacDonald seems hopeful.”

George’s relief had been genuine. “Thank Christ.”

“Mmm.”

The silence had dragged on a bit too long, Edward still lost in a weary daze, and George standing awkwardly, expectantly, before the table. Finally it had become more than he could bear, and he’d tried again: “Raucous night, though, Edward, hmm?”

“Indeed.”

“Bear...cannon blast…”

“Yes,” said Edward absently.

George had felt as though he’d hit a wrong key and then couldn’t find the melody again. He couldn’t just mention it. It would be vulgar. So instead he’d simply leveled a mental cannon loaded with _suggestion_ in Edward’s direction and hoped that some bit of grapeshot would find its target. “Cannon...fire….”

This had seemed to stir a complete thought out of Edward: “Thank God Blanky had the sense to set the creature alight. If he had died…” he’d trailed off, grimacing.

“Yes,” George had said, out of ammunition and suddenly feeling abominably out of place. “Thank God.” 

* * *

Edward had retired at last after a mostly-silent meal, and George had been left to finish his breakfast alone, feeling peculiarly—ridiculously—bereft. When Gibson had entered to take his cup and plate, George had resisted the temptation to make any _suggestions_ his way—it struck him as unfair, not to mention personally embarrassing, to mine the enlisted men for flattery. Nonetheless, he had perked up when Gibson cleared his throat and said, “Lieutenant, Sir, I just wanted to say—”

“Yes?”

“Captain Crozier’s indisposed. Nothing serious, Dr. MacDonald assures us, but he may be scarce for a few days.”

“Oh.” George had absorbed this as Gibson made to leave. “Wait, _ill_? When did—what—”

“You were asleep, sir. Did Lieutenant Little not mention it? He’s had a long night; it might have escaped him….”

“No,” George had said hastily. “No, he told me about Crozier’s…illness. But did he—did Dr. MacDonald, by chance—did he elaborate on the…nature of the illness? Edward was so exhausted I’m afraid I didn’t press him.”

Gibson had shifted his gaze politely to some point above and beyond George’s eyes. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know anything else.” And with that, he had exited, leaving George to wonder what other news no one had bothered to deliver him yet, and whether Crozier’s sudden illness meant he wouldn’t be getting a commendation anytime soon.

* * *

He’d caught up with John mid-morning that first day. “Pandemonium last night, Johnny.”

John had nodded curtly by way of greeting. “Lieutenant.” Then, petulantly: “You know I don’t like to be called that on duty. It’s indecorous.” John had been in a _mood_ for some weeks now, although it had been difficult for George to parse whether it was the result of some personal troubles John had been weathering, or simply the general malaise that had blanketed Terror all winter. Either way, he had known John was unlikely to be a bubbling spring of applause no matter what, and that this attempt was doomed from the start—but George was in a mood now too: desperate for a good word, a critique, anything—and even the fair certainty he’d leave any such exchange feeling more frustrated and less satisfied than ever wasn’t enough to stop him trying.

“ _Lieutenant_ ,” George had indulged him, such was his need to hear someone acknowledge that cannonball. “Dreadful business, with the creature and Mr. Blanky. Could have been far worse, though.”

“I’d rather not talk about it.” John is afraid of the bear—properly afraid—even though he does a fine job of pretending not to be. George had known that but always forgotten. “Anyway, I didn’t see anything.”

“But did you hear—”

“ _George_!” It had been John who looked desperate then. “I don’t want to talk about it! Not now.”

“Very well,” George had said quickly, mortified for upsetting John like that. John had given him a grateful, tight-lipped smile. “It’s going to be alright,” offers George with what he hopes is a comforting squeeze of John’s shoulder, though he can’t also offer any reasons why it ought to be alright—he simply knows that it’s the second lieutenant’s job to say such things to the third.

That had mollified John slightly. “We’re all very glad you weren’t killed,” he’d said, which wasn’t exactly praise of George’s shot—nor had he explained who ‘we’ was—but it had been more than George had heard from anyone else.

* * *

Two days have passed since then, during which George has repeatedly insisted to himself that it’s no matter! He hadn’t actually expected anything, and what’s more, there was nothing to expect. The more time has passed, the less heroic it’s all seemed to him in hindsight. Maybe, yes, he’d had a vision he’d nursed in private moments for years, a tableau he’d insert himself into some nights as he fell asleep: He was at the captain’s table, sitting where Fitzjames had sat, regaling the others with the raucous story of his Great Success. Humbly, of course, making light of it, as if it had been as effortless as putting on a hat, with a good deal of self-effacing humor sprinkled throughout, and the men interjecting with good-natured commentary. The precise nature of the Great Success tended to change with each staging, but that wasn’t important: what was important was that the faces of the others were filled with warmth and admiration. George had played the role of the swept away audience for so many tales of derring-do over the years. It wasn’t solely an act, of course—he really did find them delightful—but surely it wasn’t wrong to hope that he might one day be elevated from his spot in the chorus to soloist.

Anyway. That had been a mere vision, not an expectation, and George has far too much to do to waste time ruminating on a single cannonball that he happened to have fired one time.

* * *

“Do you think all that business of the creature's attack on the ship will make the gazette?” he asks at dinner with Edward and John.

Neither of them react for a moment, until Edward says, “What?”

“All that business with the bear. It was exciting, wasn’t it?”

“Exciting?” Edward is staring at him as if George is an idiot child. George realizes that was the wrong thing to say—too boastful and cavalier. He’s always missing the mark with Edward and John, even after working by their sides for several years. He’ll say something he thinks is funny, or engaging, and Edward and John will both just stare at him like he’s speaking Dutch. “I just meant, it was quite the incident, wasn’t it?”

John keeps his eyes on his plate. Edward just nods.

George goes on as if they’d answered enthusiastically. “Dr. MacDonald says that Mr. Blanky is improving.”

More ambivalent head tilts.

“Edward, you were with Captain Crozier that night. What did he say? Did he say anything about it?”

Edward shifts in his seat, the look of weary incomprehension on his face giving way to a distinct look of discomfort at the mention of Crozier—but this also might just be the way Edward’s face is nowadays. “Captain Crozier?”

“Did he say anything about...Mr. Hartnell and Sergeant Tozer?” George presses, magnanimously omitting his own name. “They helped man the cannon, you know.”

Edward’s face returns to exhaustion. “Oh. Er...no. Listen, George…” he lowers his voice. “Captain Crozier—”

“Will it make it into the gazette though?”

“George, what...are you talking about?”

“When we get home. I’d imagine an incident like that—monstrous bear and all—I mean, they’d print it, surely? How much detail do you think they’ll include? Just names, or more or a narrative? ‘Great bear heroically dispatched mid-blizzard; Ice Master’s life saved.’ I was just thinking, it might do…young Mr. Hartnell some good—and his family, too—to see his name printed, given…everything. A mention like that could mean quite a lot, couldn’t it? To anyone involved.”

Edward doesn’t look at him. He looks awful, truth be told. There’s a crease in the center of his forehead that grows more pronounced every time he frowns, which is quite a lot lately. He shrugs. “If we return home without the Passage, I can’t imagine they’d print anything at all. Everything else is…well, they don’t care, do they?”

_I care_ would be an immensely childish answer, so George doesn’t say that. Nor does he say, _You’d care, if you were me!_ Or, _How do you remain so aloof, Edward! John, I know you’d rather be anywhere but here, and you couldn’t care less for pomp and recognition—but Edward! Please, you must tell me how you stay above it all! None of it matters to you! You have Crozier’s confidence—and you don’t ask for it! He talks to you, he trusts you with responsibility—and you don’t want it! I want it—it matters to me—and he doesn’t see me! I’m not sure he knows my given name, Edward! Whenever I make a mistake, I see him there, turning away with a disgusted sneer, but when I do something good—when I do just one thing right, really right—nothing! He doesn’t see me! No one sees me! God, Edward, please tell me how you do it, how you can remain so indifferent and still make off with every prize._

But he can’t say any of those things, so he settles for “Yes. I suppose you’re quite right.” Which, of course, Edward always is.

* * *

George can’t stop thinking about it. The lack of… _anything_ he’s gotten from anyone has thrown him into a near-constant state of suppressed agitation, naturally attended by a generous portion of guilt. How very shameful, childish, small-minded to dwell on a minor incident of glory denied, when the entire crew is in such dire straits. The important thing, he reminds himself, is that Mr. Blanky is alive, and that the beast was run off before it could snatch up any more of them, and George _can_ swear honestly that he’d do it again, that he’d do it another hundred times, even if he knew for certain that not one person would thank him for it. He’s spent the better part of his life in the navy, and he knows how things go here; the navy is really quite a poor choice of employment for any man overly concerned with receiving credit for his good deeds. But truthfully it’s not the Admiralty, nor even the Naval Gazette, that George is concerned with—it’s the small company of men still aboard Terror whose recognition he’d do anything to gain just this once. 

He’s still thinking about it the next evening as he dons his slops and climbs the ladder up to the deck to take his watch. Though the cold is still piercing, the storm has blown through at last, and the sky is clear and starry. George looks up into it, feeling wretchedly lonely all of a sudden. He’s _trying_ , he’s _been_ trying this whole time, and yet somehow that only seems to make the fact that he doesn’t seem to be accomplishing anything of note worse, as though the only thing more humiliating than expending a middling effort and failing would be to fail after giving it everything he has. At least in the former case others might be left with the impression that there’s more to him, or at least, there might be, whereas the latter grimly confirms that this is the full measure of George Hodgson, who may have always come up short, but who tries hard.

He does his best to work up his usual sense of awe and appreciation for the dazzling array of stars, but finds his heart isn’t in it tonight. He can’t shake the feeling that all of this, everything, was all meant for someone else, and he’s just there _in_ it by mistake. Like he’s playing a bit part in the wrong play and has wandered onstage to the consternation of all, himself included. The stars are very beautiful, but they’re impossibly distant and utterly indifferent to him, and the light they cast is cold.

Suddenly he becomes aware that there’s someone at his elbow. When he turns, Tom Hartnell is there, fidgeting as though, under warmer circumstances, he’d be holding his cap in his hands. “Lieutenant Hodgson, sir, might I have a word?” he begins in that serious way of his. “I just wanted to say…the other night, when the creature attacked us, I’m grateful for your aim.”

George has no ready answer to that.

“With the bear and Mr. Blanky, I mean,” Hartnell goes on. “Me and my mates reckon just an inch tilted up or down and that ball would have missed. It was lucky you were out with us, is all.” When George fails to find his tongue, Hartnell begins to falter. “Apologies, sir—I didn’t mean—I shouldn’t have addressed you like that—”

“Your mates, you said?”

“Aye, sir,” Hartnell is visibly relieved, and he grins bashfully. “They wanted to hear all about it. Even Sergeant Tozer said it was a good shot, and he’s—well, I think they were right impressed, is all.”

George tries to don a neutral expression, but can’t help smiling as well. “Is that so?”

Hartnell grows serious. “I reckon it helped me out, sir. That is, I’ve still got duty owing forever, but…” he shuffles his feet, not needing to explicitly mention the lashing, which they both remember all too well. Hartnell was a good lad, and George had hated to see him mixed up in that dreadful business. Choosing his words carefully, Hartnell continued, “Do you think the captain took notice, sir? Do you think it might have…improved his opinion of me at all? I know I did wrong, but doing my best, sir, I really am. I’m just—do you think he’s still very angry with me?”

“Not at all,” George responds reflexively. “No, he was…he was very pleased. He said so!”

Hartnell’s eyes widen. “He said he was pleased? With me?”

Lying doesn’t come naturally to George, but the boy is so _earnest_ , so he musters all the authority he can and funnels it into his next words. “Yes, he said—” he tries to imagine what a compliment would even sound like, coming from Captain Crozier. “Just before he took ill. I told him how you helped man the cannon in the white-out, with that creature on the loose, and he said, ‘Lieutenant Hodgson—’” George pauses. “He said, ‘Lieutenant Hodgson, please convey to Mr. Hartnell and Sergeant Tozer my commendation for their bravery. And tell them…that their actions have not gone unnoticed.’”

Hartnell stares in shock for a moment, and a great beaming smile breaks over his honest face. “Oh, thank you, Lieutenant. And thank you for giving me the chance to show I can make things right. I won’t let you or the captain down, I promise.”

“When this is all over, I’ll make sure he remembers,” says George. "As you were, Mr. Hartnell.”

Hartnell gives him one final, grateful nod, and moves along. And George is left alone once more under the vast Arctic sky, feeling—for the first time in many days—more or less at home, and more or less at peace.

**Author's Note:**

> If you clicked on a G-rated Hodgson fic in the first place, and then slogged through three thousand meandering words of man-in-his-feelings, hoping there was a plot in here somewhere, then got to the end and realized you'd been misled...I'm genuinely sorry. I'm very stupid and can't create plots :(
> 
> This has been in draft fragments for two years now, and I've resigned myself to the fact that it's not going to get better, so I'm drop-kicking it here for posterity, I guess. Again, I'm SORRY it's boring, everything I write comes out like this...I'm cursed.


End file.
